FOODFORTHOUGHT

Twenty years ago, I drove a cab for a living. It was a cowboy's life, a
life for someone who wanted no boss. What I didn't realize was that it
was also a ministry. Because I drove the night shift, my cab became a
moving confessional. Passengers climbed in, sat behind me in total
anonymity, and told me about their lives. I encountered people whose
lives amazed me, ennobled me, made me laugh and weep. But none touched
me more than a woman I picked up late one August night.

I responded to a call from a small brick fourplex in a quiet part of
town. I assumed I was being sent to pick up some partiers, or someone
who had just had a fight with a lover, or a worker heading to an early
shift at some factory in the industrial part of town. When I arrived
at 2:30 a.m., the building was dark except for a single light in a ground
floor window.

Under these circumstances, many drivers would just honk once or twice,
wait a minute, then drive away. But I had seen too many impoverished
people who depended on taxis as their only means of transportation.
Unless a situation smelled of danger, I always went to the door. This
passenger might be someone who needed my assistance, I reasoned to
myself. So I walked to the door and knocked.

"Just a minute," answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear
something being dragged across the floor. After a long pause, the door opened. A
small woman in her 80s stood before me. She was wearing a print dress
and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a
1940's movie. By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment
looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was
covered with sheets. There were no clocks on the walls, no knick-knacks
or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled
with photos and glassware.

"Would you carry my bag out to the car?" she said.

I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman. She
took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb. She kept thanking me
for my kindness.

"It's nothing," I told her. "I just try to treat my passengers the way
I would want my mother treated."

"Oh, you're such a good boy," she said.

When we got in the cab, she gave me an address, then asked, "Could you
drive through downtown?"

"It's not the shortest way," I answered quickly.

"Oh, I don't mind," she said. "I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to a
hospice".

I looked in the rearview mirror. Her eyes were glistening.

"I don't have any family left," she continued. "The doctor says I don't
have very long."

I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

"What route would you like me to take?" I asked.

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the
building where she had once worked as an elevator operator. We drove
through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they
were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse
that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.
Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or
corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said,
"I'm tired. Let's go now."

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low
building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed
under a portico. Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we
pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move. They must
have been expecting her. I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase
to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

"How much do I owe you?" she asked, reaching into her purse.

"Nothing," I said.

"You have to make a living," she answered.

"There are other passengers," I responded.

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me
tightly.

"You gave an old woman a little moment of joy," she said. "Thank you."

I squeezed her hand, then walked into the dim morning light. Behind
me,
a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly,
lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that
woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his
shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then
driven away? On a quick review, I don't think that I have done very
many more important things in my life.

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.
But great moments often catch us unaware - beautifully wrapped in what
others may consider small ones.

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